


nel cuore hai un buco

by lorelaislatte



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: 3x06 aftermath, F/F, hurt/comfort ig?, i know we're all writing this but i also want to so there, i wouldn’t go so far as to call this a character study but i’m trying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:00:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24298477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorelaislatte/pseuds/lorelaislatte
Summary: All she wants, just one goddamn time, is to give in to that feeling of wanting to be wanted.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 19
Kudos: 255





	nel cuore hai un buco

**Author's Note:**

> it's 3:46am and i have brain worms and i listened to a lot of vivaldi writing this so blame all the italics on him.

She's really, really drunk.

And she's really, really _sad_.

Dasha's there, and then she's not. Her arm hurts, and then it doesn't. Her heart aches, and then it's numb.

 _Fucking stupid_.

Her eyes are just open enough to watch Dasha's retreating form. She doesn't love Dasha, she doesn't even particularly like her. But God, wouldn't it be nice if someone stayed?

Russia was a bad idea. Konstantin was right, and _fuck_ , does she hate it when that turns out to be the case. Her latest job had been a disaster. Well, she supposes, that's not fair. She did what she was supposed to do, managed to leave her own style behind as she left. But that feeling of faltering, of hesitating - that's new on her. And to let one of her targets get his own back? Come on. Nobody has _ever_ managed to get her back. Not since Eve anyway, but she doesn't count. She's not a target.

Not in the same way.

Villanelle's legs have long since gone numb, causing her to hiss as she tries to move and is instantly met with a wave of pins and needles. Resigning herself to the bath, and the knowledge that she truly is alone, she lets her head drop back, letting the tears work their way back towards the surface.

Tears. Alone. Since when was this who she was?

Since when wasn't it?

* * *

Eve doesn't particularly like to rank her bad decisions, but if she did, following Dasha to an unknown location in a foreign country alone would probably be pretty near the top.

She's confident this is Villanelle's place. There's no way she'd work for anything less than the best, and a stunning Spanish apartment just out of the way of the city is probably a baseline requirement. It's pretty, she notes. There's something a bit softer about it than the Paris rooms she remembers. Just as flashy, but somewhat more resigned. Somewhat more lonely, she thinks, though she can't pinpoint why. There's worse places to hide under a windowsill.

About an hour has passed since she got here, and she's beginning to realise how strange she'd look to anyone who found her, when - finally - the door opens, and Dasha leaves, walking briskly in the direction Eve had followed her from. No Villanelle, Eve notes. No move to lock the door behind her, either. Interesting.

 _Might as well have a look inside_ , she thinks. _What's the worst that can happen._

She finds she thinks about that question a lot more than she does any possible answers.

* * *

The door shuts, and then it creaks open again. _Fucking Dasha_ , Villanelle thinks, her mind hazy. Fuck it, she'll go and close it later. Nobody ever comes down here anyway.

And that's the problem, really, isn't it? Nobody ever really shows up. Not when she wants them to, not when she _needs_ them to. Nobody came to take her back from the orphanage, nobody went looking for her when she disappeared to follow her current career path. Clearly nobody ever wanted to. Eve did, and then she stabbed her. It stings a bit to think that that's the most affection she's had in years.

She's never been a stranger to intimacy, not in the physical sense. Villanelle loves sex, she knows she's attractive, and the idea of people lusting after her is hardly an abstract one. But she struggles to remember a time she felt truly, properly _wanted_. For more than her face. For more than her talent. Even Anna still chose her husband.

All she wants, just one goddamn time, is to give in to that feeling of wanting to be wanted.

Her thoughts won't be quiet. Her sobs won’t either.

* * *

_God_ , Villanelle knows how to decorate.

Eve is almost too busy staring at the hallway around her, with it's charming high ceilings and yellow paint, to notice the choking sound coming from the second door down. 

When she clocks it, she stops.

Is that... _Villanelle?_

A step forward, cautiously. Another. A few more, stopping every pace to really consider what she's doing. A hand, reaching out to push the door open. A final step. 

A view of Oksana - she can't use her other name, this woman isn't Villanelle - a teary mess on the bathroom floor, with a lazily-stitched arm wound and mascara streaking under her eyes. Her head tilted back against the bath, staring glassily at nothing as her shoulders gently heave. Blood on the floor around her, her jacket falling off and her hands still beside her. She hasn't even turned to look at Eve. Eve isn't sure she's able to.

She stands at the door for a good minute, gears turning in her head as to what, quite frankly, the _fuck_ she's supposed to do now.

She doesn't have longer to think, as Oksana's eyes move to meet her own, and a hollow, choking laugh follows.

"Of _course_ you're here."

* * *

Someone could have a gun to her head and she wouldn't be able to tell them if she'd dreamed Eve up or not. She takes in her eyes, her face, her hair. Something inside her burns - here's someone else who's probably already looking for the door. Someone else who probably isn't as different as she thought they were. Another time, the arrogance in her would take over, remind her of Eve's fixation on her, but she's tired, and she's drunk, and she's wallowing in her own misery, and she just doesn't _care_ enough to be rational.

While she's processing, Eve has taken a few steps towards her, dropped on to the floor so she's within arms reach. Cautiously reaches a hand out, then leaves it in mid-air, clearly unsure what to do next. _Join the fucking club_ , Oksana thinks.

She watches Eve, tries to make eye contact, but she can't make herself look up. Drops her gaze to the floor again. "Look, if this is about the bus, I've got other things on my mind right now," she quips, ever trying to get the upper hand.

"It's not- Jesus, Oksana, has somebody _stabbed you?"_

"Mm. Not as much fun as when you do it."

Eve gives a heavy sigh, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose. "Alright, well, we'll deal with the rest of you in a minute, just let me take a look."

Oksana winces heavily as Eve makes contact with her skin, turning her slightly to face the older woman. Eve is rustling around with something, the remnants of whatever Dasha left behind, and the pain throbs harder as some kind of ointment is applied, followed by what feels like a bandage. Not quite a hospital-grade infection barrier, but she doesn't really care. If Dasha hadn't appeared, she probaby wouldn't have bothered to finish stitching it. Not yet, anyway. The pain gives her something else to focus on.

* * *

It shouldn't take her anywhere near as long as it does to throw some antiseptic and a bandage together, but Eve isn't quite sure she's ready to try and tackle whatever the hell else is happening. She thinks back to the first time Villanelle turned up at her house, how she'd sat at the table and faked a teary confession. Eve had seen right through it. But this doesn't feel fabricated, or exaggerated. Something's happened, something _bad_.

_Way to state the fucking obvious, Polastri._

She rocks back to her heels, gently putting Oksana's arm down and really taking her in. Her head has hit the bathtub again, and Eve finds herself reaching forwards, winding her hand around the back of her skull and gingerly cradling it, lifting her head ever-so-slightly forwards. Oksana looks at her again, really _looks_ at her. Lightly reaches out to touch the fabric of Eve's shirt. Strokes it between finger and thumb, just for a second. And then cries harder.

Eve doesn't have time to react before she's got a head shoved under her chin and a second hand clutching at her. Oksana stutters for a second, breathing her in, feeling her presence. Eve's careful to mind the wound as she slowly places her own arms around Oksana's back. Takes a deep breath, murmurs a quick "it's alright".

Silence, apart from Oksana's choking sobs.

A whispered response.

"It hurts, Eve."

They both know she isn't talking about her arm.

* * *

There is silence, and comfort, and pain, and _Eve_.

There is soft fabric, warm arms, fingers running through her hair, a soothing rub on her back.

There is a familiar smell, a hint of sandalwood, a gentle texture of cotton against her cheek.

There is a sense of being cared for. Of being looked after.

There is a feeling she hasn't felt in a very long time.

There is a feeling of safety. 

There is a feeling of love.

Unconditionally.

**Author's Note:**

> comments are my lifeblood. bonus point if you can identify which song from the series i nicked the title from x


End file.
